


Draw, Breathe, Fire

by FestiveFerret



Category: Marvel, Marvel Cinematic Universe, The Avengers (Marvel Movies), The Avengers (Marvel) - All Media Types
Genre: Animal Shelters, Banter, Bucky Barnes Has PTSD, Bucky Barnes Recovering, Bucky Learns to Archery, Clint Barton's Bow & Arrows, Falling In Love, Ferrets, First Kiss, Flirting, Get Together, Hurt Clint Barton, Little bit of angst, M/M, Noodle no Noodling, Romance, Sexual Content, lotta fluff
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-09-29
Updated: 2017-09-29
Packaged: 2019-01-06 21:01:26
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 14,899
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12218880
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/FestiveFerret/pseuds/FestiveFerret
Summary: If Bucky's not the Winter Soldier - not a weapon - anymore, then who is he?And who is this smart-mouthed, cocky, flirty, pushy archer, Clint Barton?





	Draw, Breathe, Fire

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Deejaymil](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Deejaymil/gifts).



> This one is for the amazing deejaymil, a beautiful friend and a beautiful person (and a beautiful writer that you should go check out), because she said she couldn't decide if she liked Clint or Bucky best so I said I would write both and she wouldn't have to pick. So here I am in Winterhawk!
> 
> Hope you enjoy <3

_It’s 2012. You’re at Stark Tower. With Steve. And the Avengers. You live here. Everyone around you is safe._

Bucky repeated the mantra to himself several times before opening his eyes. He hadn’t slept - he only slept about one in three nights these days - but he had dozed, drifted. Not too far. He couldn’t drift too far.

The ceiling looked the same as it always did - white, plain. He spent a lot of time staring at it these days. More often than not, it became the blank screen where his waking nightmares were projected, when they weren’t flickering across the inside of his eyelids. He watched men die at his hand, over and over, screaming. He felt blood slide in between the metal plates in his arm, drying and making them hitch and catch and stick. He felt the weight of a rifle in his hands.

“You have a text message from Captain Rogers,” the ceiling told him.

Bucky rubbed his hand over his eyes, pulling himself back into the present. It was easier to adjust to the room talking, than figure out how to work the tiny “phone” Stark had pressed into his hand one day. He was used to being watched. He wasn’t used to being able to call people from anywhere on the planet, let alone texting, and something called Candy Crush. He imagined JARVIS as an elderly man, in a room filled with books, his head filled with all the knowledge in those books. It made it a little less weird. So he’d given JARVIS his phone, or the password, or whatever - JARVIS handled that stuff and told him when someone was trying to get a hold of him. Which wasn’t often.

“Go ahead.”

“‘Hey Buck,’” JARVIS read out in his bland, British tone. “‘Nat and I are hitting the range in about an hour, if you want to join us. If not, I’ll see you at lunch.’”

Bucky stared at the stark, white ceiling and wondered what it would show him today. “Text back, ‘See you at lunch.’”

“Done.”

“Thanks, JARVIS.”

“You are very welcome, Sir.”

Steve would be disappointed, but he was disappointed every day, so Bucky was used to it. The lunch thing wasn’t Bucky’s idea, Steve had insisted, and Bucky had given in without much of a fight. He was too tired to fight. Every day around noon, Steve showed up with food, made Bucky eat, chatted, tried to therapy him or some shit, then left. The range thing, Bucky had stayed firm on.

Bucky let his eyes drift shut again. A knock on the door snapped them open. He turned to look at his clock. It was noon; three hours had passed. The twenty feet to the door was all he needed to shake the weight of dead men off his shoulders, roll out the stiffness in his metal arm, and paste on a fake smile.

He pulled the door open. “Hey, Stevie.”

“Hey, Buck. Missed you at the range. Nat says hi.” Steve barrelled into the apartment with two plastic bags of takeout and dumped them on the kitchen counter. Bucky mumbled a vague affirmative, pulling out plates and drinks. Bucky liked Natasha, as much as he liked any of the other Avengers. The truth was, he barely knew them. Natasha was soft-spoken and radiated power and sometimes spoke Russian in a way that made Bucky twitchy. Barton was mouthy and too comfortable with everything, all the time. Banner was nice, but too quiet, and too perceptive. Thor he hardly knew; he was never here. Stark was… there weren’t really words for Stark but “grating” was the closest Bucky could get.

It would make Steve happy, if Bucky bonded more with the other occupants of the tower, but he just couldn’t bring himself to try. It was hard enough work convincing Steve that he was doing alright, he couldn’t imagine keeping it up in a room full of spies and superheroes. He hadn’t tried to fake it, at first. He would tell Steve how he really felt, but then Steve’s face would twist up in this horrible way. And the few times Bucky had a good day and told him so, he would glow. So he lied, because he loved Steve and he couldn’t be responsible for twisting his face up anymore.

They ate. Steve talked. Bucky focused on looking like he was listening while his mind buzzed with oppressive white noise. It wasn’t until Steve leapt to his feet, that Bucky realized that some of that noise had leaked into the tower. His walls were screeching.

“Assemble, Buck, gotta go!” Steve darted out of the apartment and Bucky went after him, abandoning the food and dishes. He hovered in the hallway while Steve grabbed his uniform from his room, then reappeared, zipping up the front and pulling on his gloves. Bucky followed Steve down to the main floor, hanging behind. Avengers poured out of the halls and elevators and they all converged on the quinjet. Steve shot Bucky a little half salute then they all climbed in the jet and roared off.

The tower was suddenly oppressively quiet. It was a weird feeling, watching everyone else enact this sleek, well-oiled system while he stood around with his teeth in his mouth. Up, dressed, out the door, save the world. And here was Bucky, left behind. The housewife. A burble of laughter wriggled its way out Bucky’s chest and he let it out with a bark, then cut it off. He should probably do Rogers’ laundry or something. Or snoop.

The giddiness subsided as quickly as it had flared up and he found himself tired again. He thought about going upstairs, but as soon as the jet took off, a ribbon of anxiety coiled through his stomach, squeezing his insides. He watched them leave for assembles all the time, but it never failed to leave him nervous and jittery. Instead of going back upstairs, he collapsed on the couch in the common room and flicked the TV on.

“Hey, JARVIS? Any broadcast news from the mission?”

“My apologies, but this is a stealth operation and the mainstream media is not aware of it so there will not be any coverage. I will provide you with any updates I can, but it’s unlikely that I’ll hear anything I can relay until it’s over.”

“Thanks anyway.”

Bucky spent the next few hours flipping through three million channels of nothing, trying to get absorbed by a football game and failing, eventually giving in to HGTV. He was just started to get sucked into a bizarre show called Love It or List It, when there was a bang followed by yelling from outside the window. Bucky pushed himself to his feet and made it to the door just in time for it to fly open and all six Avengers to push through.

Bucky stumbled back out of the way. Tony was only wearing half the suit, Nat had a huge gash across her cheek, Bruce was naked with only a blanket wrapped around his hips, and Clint was being carried between Steve and Thor. They were all talking at once. It was hard to pick out a thread of sense in the cacophony but the short and short of it was that Clint was hurt, everyone else was fine, and at least half of the bad guys had gotten away. Steve and Thor disappeared into a room down the hall on the common floor that served as a medical suite. Steve had explained one day that they’d all learned the hard way that a hurt Avenger painted a big red target on a hospital roof. The thought alone made Bucky’s stomach twist up in knots.

Tony, Bruce, and Natasha immediately started arguing about their best plan of attack. When Thor reappeared, Natasha whisked off towards the medical suite, and Bucky took the opportunity to slip out.

The quiet of his room didn’t turn out to be much better than the commotion of downstairs. He felt like he was standing on a wasp’s nest, buzzing and swarming underneath his feet. He should do something though, shouldn’t he? But there wasn’t anything he could do. Not unless they needed someone to - No. There was nothing he could do.

The bed sunk underneath him like quicksand. He turned onto his back and the ceiling show began. He wondered if he could at least control what played, push it towards the memories that were the least painful to taste in his mouth. As if this kind of pain was something you could rate.

Sleep wouldn't come, which wasn’t unusual, but neither would any sort of relaxation. There was a trance-like state Bucky could usually slip into, if he lay still long enough and didn’t fight it, but tonight his skin crawled like a swarm of beetles across his bones and his heart jolted and skipped and started again. When he heard a rip from where his metal hand was twisted into the sheets, he pushed himself to his feet and stomped out of the room.

Six flights of stairs down to the common floor barely made a dent in the nervous energy that coursed through him. He grabbed an apple from the fruit bowl - sometimes sweet was the only thing that could chase the bitter taste of blood away - and stood by the window. He tipped forward until his forehead pressed against the glass and looked down. He was almost incomprehensibly high up. His brain spun, trying to process the information that cars and people and even other buildings could be that small.

The apple turned out to be tart instead of sweet, but it was nice all the same. A small noise from down the hall grabbed his attention. A voice - but not a live voice, a TV voice, a small bit of background music. It sounded overly chipper, like a kid’s show. A cough - that was live. Bucky followed the noises and found himself standing outside of Clint’s medical suite, in sweatpants and a t-shirt, holding half an apple. Bucky hovered in the doorway, feeling deeply awkward all of a sudden. He barely knew Clint. He should just go. The man on the bed turned his head sharply and before Bucky had a chance to jump back behind the wall, their eyes met.

“Hey, come on in,” Clint called softly.

Bucky stepped into the room. Nat was a small shape curled up on a chair in the corner, her head tucked against her hand and her back rising and falling with sleep-slowed breaths. The TV was on, but the sound was off - some overly enthusiastic cartoon. “Sorry. Didn’t mean to wake you.” Bucky inched up to the foot of the bed, then stopped, unsure.

Clint waved it off. “Nah, I wasn’t sleeping, not really. Hurts too much. I was just…”

“Drifting?”

“Sure, yeah.” He chuckled then gestured at the TV. “I mean how could I fall asleep and miss the best of Dora the Explorer?”

Bucky watched the map repeat its instructions for the ninetieth time. “Fair point.”

“What’re you doing up?”

“Couldn’t sleep either. I guess. I figured I’d -” Bucky didn’t know how to say ‘check on you’ in a way that didn’t sound weird. “Get the scoop on what happened today. If anyone was up.”

“‘Anyone’ is up. And the short of it is that I got a little bit stabbed.”

Bucky’s eyebrow shot up. “Stabbed? I thought you were going to say you jumped off another building.”

“Oh, you heard about that?” Clint laughed, but there was a little bit of pride in his voice too. God, he was worse than Stevie for self-sacrificial self-destruction. “Yeah, not this time. There’s a reason I’m a ranged attack. I’m not so good up close. Managed to take out three of them but the fourth got me in the gut.” Clint pulled the blanket down and Bucky leaned forward to look. He was shirtless and his side was wrapped in stark white bandages.

“Ouch.”

Clint shrugged. “Eh, I’ve had worse. Plus they’ve got me on the good stuff, so hey! Ask me some prying questions, I have no filter when I’m high.” He pulled a goofy expression and laughed at his own joke. Bucky couldn’t help but smile; the drugs really did seem to be having an effect. He tried to think of a question that would be funny, wanting to make Clint laugh again, but the only questions he could think of were the ones he imagined everyone would want to ask him, instead: How many people have you killed? Do you remember doing it? Does the arm hurt? Don’t you think you deserve to be in prison?

A drunk-looking chipmunk laughed on the TV, drawing Bucky’s attention. “Alright, which is your favourite Dora episode?” Bucky asked, and was rewarded with Clint’s chuckle.

“Any one with Swiper. I have a crush on that adorable little kleptomaniac.”

A grin pulled at the corners of Bucky’s lips. “She don’t get jealous?” He tipped his chin towards the occupied chair in the corner.

“Nah, she supports my cartoon habit. Wait, why would she get jealous?”

“Aren’t you two -” Bucky made a vague gesture with his hand.

“Ah, no.” Clint looked across the room at her sleeping form and smiled, eyes warm and full of affection. “Nah, she’s like my family, or something. Not like that.” He turned back to Bucky. “Not my type, anyway. I’m more of a tall, dark, and handsome kind of guy.” He shot Bucky a wink.

“Oh.” _Oh…_ That was… interesting. It wasn’t new, the idea of men liking men, but it was new to make a joke about it like that. If that was even what Clint was saying. Bucky shifted from one leg to the other, suddenly feeling stiff and off balance. Unless Clint had… had picked up on something and that’s why he was saying it. Or maybe Clint just told everyone.

Bucky hadn’t told anyone.

Even if it was something you told people now, he wasn’t sure he could. At least not like that. Clint looked back at the TV, and Bucky realized he’d been quiet for too long. “So how long will you be laid up?”

Clint shrugged, then winced, his hand coming to rest gently over the bandaged area. “Couple weeks I guess. I’ll probably be able to get up and move around pretty soon, but I won’t be fighting fit for a while.”

Bucky nodded. He wanted to leave. He wasn’t even sure why he’d come down here in the first place. His hand was sticky with juice from the apple but he didn’t know where to put it down. “Well. I better let you get some rest. Glad you’re okay.”

“Sure, thanks. Hey, Barnes?”

“Yeah?”

“Will you come back and visit me? This lot will be busy hunting down the rest of the gang. They had to cut the mission short because of me. So we’ll both be stuck here alone. If you’re bored, I mean. Come hang out. I don’t do quiet well.”

Clint shot him an easy smile, and Bucky found himself saying, ”Sure, I’ll come back,” even though all he wanted right now was to be alone in his bed again.

“Thanks. Night.”

Bucky bolted out of the room and to the stairs, took them two at a time up to his floor, then collapsed on his bed. He stared up at the white ceiling working his breath down to even. But once it had, he felt something shift. All he had wanted was to get out of there. It felt new and awkward and unpleasant to smile and chat and banter with Clint, but now that he was alone, he wanted to go back down. Because replaying Clint’s words - his body language, his smiles - in his mind, Bucky could see that the awkwardness was all imagined on his part. Clint hadn’t minded that Bucky sometimes forgot and let the smile drop off his face. Clint hadn’t minded that sometimes Bucky didn’t know what to say. He’d just enjoyed the company.

Bucky didn’t go back the next night. It felt odd for some reason - needy, even though Clint had been the one to ask. So he waited until the next night, then, after the tower was dark and quiet, made his way downstairs. Natasha’s chair was empty this time, and Clint had the TV on still, though the sound was off. Bucky tossed a pack of cards down on the bed. “You play something?”

Clint’s whole face lit up. “Fuck, I’ll play Go Fish at this point, anything to stave off insanity.”

The obvious answer was poker, but there were too many nights with the Commandos tied up in that game. “Crazy 8’s?”

Clint gestured towards the chair at the foot of his bed and Bucky pulled it around to the side. “Deal.”

They played the first few hands in silence, a rather comfortable silence, to Bucky’s surprise. There was still the ever-present feeling that he should be saying something, but Clint never shot him worried looks, or prodded him to talk, he just played. And lost.

“Geez, you ever hear of letting an injured man win?”

“Nope.”

“You have no sympathy for the fact that I am mortally wounded.”

“It’s not mortal. Don’t be a baby.”

“I got stabbed!”

“Yeah, you should probably try to avoid that.”

Clint laughed. “Anyone ever told you you’re an asshole?”

Bucky looked up and caught Clint’s twinkling eye. “Yeah. But it’s not my fault. I get all the asshole from Steve.”

“Well, that’s a pretty thought.”

It took Bucky ten whole seconds to get it and when he did, he worried that the sudden heat under his skin would ignite the wooden chair he was sitting on. “Jesus Christ!” He buried his face in his hands. Clint started up a choked off, broken laughter, likely designed to keep from ripping his stitches, but at least it sounded painful.

“You just left that one lying there, I couldn't not!” Clint gasped out.

“Ergh, why?! You could have.” Bucky smacked his knee with a free hand, then reeled it back, startled that it had felt okay to touch him.

“What? It’s just a joke.” Clint pouted and petted his knee melodramatically.

“A gross one.” Clint’s expression shifted ever so slightly towards tense, then relaxed when Bucky added, “He’s like my brother. I grew up with him. Like you said, family.”

Clint chuckled. “Look, I warned you that I had no filter when I was high. And speaking of high, I think I’m due. Could you pass me the water bottle on the nightstand?” Once he had his water, Clint knocked back a couple pills from a small, yellow bottle, then blinked up at the ceiling for a moment.

“Think you might sleep?” Bucky asked. “It’s almost four.”

“Yeah, yeah, I think I might. These’ll hit me quick. If I’m already resting by then, maybe I’ll catch a few hours.” He snuggled down under the blankets and yawned. “Thanks.”

Bucky gathered up the cards. “Sure. Night.”

“Night. Hey, Barnes?” Bucky paused by the door. “Come back tomorrow night, yeah?”

It was easier this time to say, “Sure.”

 

**

 

“Take me to the range,” Clint pressed, halfway through a game of Parcheesi. They’d played through every card game either of them knew over the last week and had decided they weren’t above raiding Bruce’s board game collection.

“What?” Bucky shot him a suspicious look.

“Please?”

“What do you need me for?”

“I may have been caught trying to pull a miraculous escape and the result is that most of the tower has been locked off for me unless I’m with someone who has access.”

Bucky couldn’t help but snort out a laugh. “I don’t think _I_ was the one they had in mind with that rule.”

“Well, then! Happy loophole!” Clint clapped his hands together. “Bust me out.”

“No way, man. It's more than my life’s worth to piss off Steve.”

“No one’s here, they’ll never know. Dude, you have to know what this feels like - needing to shoot and not being able to? It’s the worst. I need to fire away this tension or I’m going to eat my pillow.”

Bucky did know that feeling, it had been pulsing through his veins since he first set foot in the tower. But he couldn’t go to the range. “No.”

He held out for two more days, until the next time the rest of the Avengers were out on a mission and Clint started berating him again. “Just take me to your next practice, I don’t even have to shoot, I just have to _smell my bow_ for fucks sake. Bucky pleaseeeee.”

Bucky hadn’t noticed when Clint had switched from calling him Barnes, to calling him Bucky, but it was kind of nice in an uncomfortable way. “I don’t prac-” He cut off. He didn’t want to talk about it, and Clint wasn’t going to let this go. “Fine. We’ll go now. But if this all goes to shit, you’re taking all the blame.”

“Yes! No problem, I’m used to that. Help a fella up?” Clint held out his hand and Bucky hauled him to his feet. Clint wobbled, and Bucky gripped his elbow hard, steadying him. Clint shot him a grateful smile.

“You sure you’re up to this?” Bucky looked him in the eye and calculated how much he was lying.

“Yes, please. I’m desperate. I’m always up for range time. I once shot someone’s fake eyelashes off with both my legs broken. Good times.” Forty percent lying. He’d take that. Bucky shook his head and shoved Clint towards the door, keeping a firm grip on his elbow when he realized that the wobbling wasn’t going to go away. The elevator opened, and Clint hissed a tiny, “yesss.” Bucky had to assume this was as far as he’d gotten last time. They dropped down to the gym level and the doors opened. And Bucky’s legs wouldn’t move.

He could see the line of bullseyes - high-tech, JARVIS controlled targets that could fly around and dodge you. Steve had shown it all to him when he had first moved in. He hadn’t been down here since. His heart rattled in his chest, fighting his lungs for space. He didn’t realize his hands were tightening into fists until Clint squeaked and he dropped Clint’s elbow like it had caught fire. Thank god he had been supporting him with the flesh hand.

With a long, slow breath, he unclenched his metal fist and forced his legs to move forward. He didn’t have to shoot, he could get Clint set up and then come back for him when he was done. Clint had hardly noticed his little episode, rocking on the balls of his feet and grinning. Bucky helped him over to the equipment cupboard, which JARVIS helpfully unlocked. Clint’s bow case sat on a shelf in sleek, black metal. He popped it open and pulled his bow out, clutching it to his chest.

“Wow, you weren’t kidding when you said you wanted to smell it. Do you two need a moment alone?”

Clint laughed. “Don’t be jealous, she likes to share.” Clint winked again, and Bucky did everything in his power to prevent the flush that was currently creeping around the back of his neck and threatening his cheeks.

“Well, come on then.” Bucky grabbed Clint’s quiver, so Clint could lean on his arm with the hand that wasn’t holding the bow, and led the way into the range. The bullseyes stared at Bucky like so many lidless, red eyes, stamped on the white snow-paper with hot blood. He dumped the arrows on the bench and recoiled to the back wall.

“You just gonna watch?” Clint asked, an all too perceptive intensity in his eye.

Bucky shrugged, trying to shake the ugly tension off with the movement. “Don’t feel like shooting.”

Clint watched him for a moment then stepped back to the bench. He ran a hand lovingly over the arrow he pulled before nocking it and bringing the bow to his shoulder. Bucky could see he was bracing himself against the high bench with his hip, and his right arm was shaking ever so slightly, but he pulled the arrow back - far back - let out an audible breath, and fired.

The arrow slammed into the target with a _thunk_ that jerked Bucky back against the wall. Clint tipped his chin slightly to the side, as if he was going to turn to Bucky, but instead he turned back and pulled another arrow. Three more, and Bucky’s teeth were vibrating out of his head. Every smack of the arrow against the paper, or grind of one arrow kissing the one before, twisted his spine tighter. Finally, Clint set down the bow and turned to face him. “I’ll be alright, if you want to go run or something.” He gestured through the bank of long windows that lead to the rest of the gym.

Bucky hovered, feeling like he should want to stay. But he was actually trying to decide between going into the gym that he didn’t want to go into but would still be better than staying in here, or making further excuses and bailing back up to his room until JARVIS let him know that Clint was done. A hint of guilt shifted him towards the gym, however. Clint wasn’t healed, probably wasn’t even supposed to be standing up and moving this much. Bucky shouldn’t leave him. What if he collapsed and bled out, and by the time JARVIS got Bucky downstairs, it was too late? Even if it weren’t, the rest of the Avengers would kill him for bringing Clint here and then abandoning him.

“Sure.” Bucky heaved out a sigh that he hoped Clint wouldn’t read too much into and pushed through the door that led to the gym. When he looked through the window, he could see Clint nocking, drawing back, the slight hitch of his shoulders as he let out a breath, and then the arrow flying across the room, but he couldn’t hear it anymore. This room was still and quiet, save for the over-loud echo of Bucky’s footsteps across the laminate floor. There were weights and treadmills and through another door, a pool. Bucky knew all this, he’d seen it during Steve’s tour, but…

He didn’t want to touch it. He didn’t want to _train._ He was a weapon that should be allowed to lose its edge, go rusty. If he worked out… he’d feel like he was working _towards_ something. And what?

The thought of running was inviting, though. Maybe it would take a bite out of the straightjacket of anxiety that was constantly wrapped around his chest. To ease its hold, just a little. Not training. Just… running.

His shirt was off before he had fully made up his mind and his feet hit the belt of the treadmill. He was wearing the wrong shoes, and sweatpants that were a little too heavy to run in, but that felt right too. No uniforms, no rituals, just run.

When he looked up, he could see Clint firing off arrow after arrow, and when he looked down he could see his feet flying. He cranked up the speed until his breath was catching then sunk into the rhythm of one foot after the other. His lungs stretched and creaked to accommodate the sharp breaths, and his unused muscles screamed in protest, but it felt so good to let go and move. It wasn’t long before he worked through the initial stiffness and it became easy, natural, simple.

He slipped so deeply into the rhythm of running that he didn’t notice Clint finish shooting, or the door opening, until Clint appeared at his side as if he’d teleported. “Gah!” Bucky jumped onto the side rails, grabbing the handle to steady himself. Clint grinned.

“All done. Feeling a bit wrecked, actually. But in a good way! I can wait if you want to keep going, but I might nod off here and you’ll have to carry me back down to bed like a princess.” Clint’s smile shifted a little and his eyes twinkled.

“No, I’m done, Princess. Let’s get your stuff packed up.” Bucky turned off the treadmill and hopped off, rolling out his hips and shoulders. He felt… good. He felt a little giddy actually.

Getting Clint back to bed was easy, and when he said, “What no kiss goodnight?” Bucky just laughed and walked out.

 

**

 

That night he slept.

The nightmares came, but they didn’t wake him for more than a moment before he slipped under again. And they were hazy and unformed - fear and pain, but nothing concrete - not movies projected on a blank, white ceiling. He woke up feeling stupid and dopey and sore down to his bones. When he stretched, his body flooded with agony and relief all as one. It was incredible.

He waited for the guilt. It never came.

Two nights later Clint asked him to shoot again and this time, Bucky readily agreed. He set the archer up with his bow, then disappeared into the gym to run. The serum had done away with any lingering soreness, and his muscles had already tightened up in response to the slight exercise, so it wasn’t long before he was flying again. He pushed, knowing he could do faster, harder, steeper, and wanting to see what would give first - his augmented body or Stark’s reinforced treadmill. He gave first.

He stumbled off the treadmill an hour and a half later, chest heaving and body tingling in a satisfying way. He wiped his forehead off with a towel from the cupboard and grabbed his shirt off the floor. His feet brought him into the range before he could stop them. He took a careful breath in the doorway, keeping his eye on Clint instead of on the targets. But out of the corner of his eye, he could still see them. They flickered into gaping wounds blown into the bullseye centre of dead men’s chests, all in a row. Bucky blinked hard until they were still, flat sheets of paper again.

Clint looked up at his arrival and gestured him over. “Guess the jigs up, found this in my quiver.” He was smiling as he pulled out a bundle of arrows, tied together with a string that had a note stuck to it: “ _Don’t pull out your stitches - T”_

Bucky took the bundle. They were sleek, black and surprisingly heavy. “Tony made these for you?”

“Yeah. Guess JARVIS ratted us out so he gave me something to keep me occupied. That way I’ll be busy playing with these instead of thinking of ways to get farther than the range.” Clint spun to face Bucky, hooking his hands over the bench and leaning back. His eyes raked appreciatively up Bucky’s bare chest, and Bucky had the odd desire to wrap his hands over his middle, as much as the cocked eyebrow was stoking some flicker of a flame deep in his belly.

“You don’t want to grab your rifle?” Clint asked lightly, and the flame was doused by a crushing wave of ice water.

“No,” Bucky growled out, swallowing back the urge to turn and walk out of the room. He tried to school his expression into a normal one, like he did for Steve, but he knew it was a cracked facade. “Sorry. I’m okay to watch, don’t worry about me.”

“It’s alright. I wasn’t pushing. You don’t have to if you don’t want to. I just assumed you’d be aching for it.”

“It’s -” Bucky tried to put the thought into words. “It’s not something I want to be good at anymore.” He’d never managed to voice it before, but that felt right, even if it was confusing.

“Ah, yeah. I get that.” Okay, that was unexpected. Bucky tipped his head in curiosity, and Clint went on, spinning the bow between his hands. “It took me two weeks to pick it up again after Loki, and even then I swapped out bows. The one I used… then… is in a box in the basement with a rock on it. Like, what? It’s going to jump out and bite me? But yeah, I get it. They get in your brain and you’re not you anymore, you’re just a weapon.”

Bucky had no words for that. Clint’s speech scratched through his insides, raw and grating.  

“You ever used a bow?” Clint asked out of nowhere, bringing his eyes back up to Bucky’s face.

Bucky froze. “No.”

“Come here.” Clint gestured over towards the bench where the bow sat.

“I’m -” Bucky stuttered. He felt the urge to flick his eyes towards the targets again, but Clint held his gaze so intently, he couldn’t pull away. His brain helpfully supplied _not allowed_ which made no sense, followed by _I shouldn’t_ which he didn’t want to explain, and ended with _I’m scared_ which he absolutely couldn’t say to Clint. He pulled his shirt back on then took a jolting step forward, and Clint held out the bow.

“This is a recurve. It’s left-handed, but you shoot either way, no?”

 _I don’t shoot._ “Yeah.”

“Okay, good.” Clint tucked the bow in his hand, showing him where to place his left hand on the grip and how to hook his finger up. He pulled an arrow out of the quiver - not one from the special bundle - and laid it on the rest. “Like this.” Clint reached for his metal hand then laughed. “Guess you won’t need a glove. Or - does it hurt?”

Bucky half-shrugged, still holding up the bow in his flesh arm. “I can feel with it, but it doesn’t hurt. It’s more like, I just know pressure is there.”

“Huh. Okay, well. You’re going to draw back and you need an anchor so bring your finger back until it touches the corner of your mouth. Just use the tips of your fingers and don’t break at your wrist, straight back.” Bucky raised the bow and drew back. It was almost effortless with the strength of his metal arm, though his flesh one protested the bracing a little bit. “Damn. That’s a good look for you.” Clint chuckled then curved around Bucky’s back to reach his other side and tap his elbow. “Rotate it out a bit, save yourself a bruise.”

Buck tried to obey, but his brain had hooked somewhere around the hand Clint had resting lightly on the small of his back. “What?”

“Elbow.”

He twisted, breath locked in his lungs, the bowstring locked to his cheek.

Clint’s hand slid up his back a little. “Breathe. Before you let go, breathe.”

Bucky let out a breath that was altogether too shaky to be anything but mortifying then let his fingers go. The string snapped forward with a _twang_ and the arrow embedded itself in the outer corner of the paper target at the end of the lane.

“Not bad!” He could hear the smile in Clint’s voice. His heart was pounding. He stared at the arrow sticking out of the paper. It looked almost cartoonish, wobbling there, not how he had expected it to look. It felt a lot less like firing a gun than he thought it would. More like just running. “Here try again.” Clint handed him another arrow. This time Bucky went through the whole routine in a smooth motion. He drew back, “Breathe,” Clint whispered in his ear, then he released. Outer red. He fired three more, a little closer each time.

Bucky lowered the bow and turned to see Clint grinning at him, chin hooked over Bucky’s shoulder. He set the bow on the bench and turned fully, but Clint didn’t back away. “You’re good at that. You can use this one any time you want, by the way.”

Bucky shrugged. A wriggling need to move rattled through his core, but it wasn’t the _Run!_ kind, it was something new. Something Bucky hadn’t felt in a long time.

“You want to go again?” Clint leaned in a little and his words meant something entirely different from what he was saying and Bucky’s throat was closing up like Stevie’s would when he had an asthma attack and he bolted.

Out of the range and up the stairs, in his room, door shut. He slid down the back of the door and rested his hands on his thighs - one skin, one metal. It didn’t mean anything. Clint probably didn’t mean anything by it. But Bucky couldn’t help but read it that way and he wasn’t sure why. It didn’t entirely feel like that was what he wanted - to be close to Clint, to lean in and close that already shrinking gap, kiss him, touch him - but his body was singing for _something_ and it was so foreign and weak and -

Damn, he’d left Clint down there by himself.

“JARVIS?” His voice was worryingly shaky. “Does Clint need help getting back to his room?”

“Agent Barton is currently in his medical suite, changing before going to bed. He does not require any assistance.”

“Okay, thanks.”

Bucky didn’t sleep at all that night, and this time, instead of watching an endless film of men who had died at his hand dance across his ceiling, it was a special feature: all the men he hadn’t been able to save.

 

**

 

He didn’t go back to Clint’s room the next day, or the day after. When he went down on the third day, hoping they could pretend none of that had happened, the room was empty, and all of Clint’s stuff was gone. JARVIS informed him that Clint was now well enough to return to his own space, which twisted something in Bucky’s gut for no reason at all. It felt like the end of something, probably rightly so. Their flirty game was over, they’d go back to their normal lives. Clint had people to save; Bucky had… smiles to fake.

They’d been a little easier to fake recently, though. He hadn’t talked with Steve about what he and Clint got up to every night, but he’d found it easier to listen. He’d only seen Steve a few times since Clint got stabbed - Steve had several long missions with Natasha and Tony, trying to finish what they’d started - but when he had it had been more comfortable. He didn’t feel quite as much like he had to monitor every shift, every smile, every breath, sculpt them into something Steve would want to see. It felt a little bit - just a tiny bit - like old times.

Bucky lasted another four days alone in his room before the urge to run again became too strong. He waited until late, even later than he had been going with Clint, and slunk down to the gym feeling like a teenager sneaking out of the house after curfew. This was supposed to be his home, but it didn’t feel like it. His apartment felt like a - a - not a cell, but a hotel room. Impersonal. Bland. Slightly _off._

He tried to shake the feeling when he got to the gym, but he knew it wasn’t born out of antsiness. It wasn’t going to go away until he talked to Clint again and knew everything was okay between them. He ran for a long time, he wasn’t even sure how long, but he was flushed and a little zoned out when he finally stopped. He had sunk a little into a trance with the _thump thump_ of each foot on the belt, and it took a minute to recalibrate on solid ground.

He exited the gym through the range, out of habit more than anything, and paused in front of the large cupboard along the hall wall. He assumed his rifle was in there, somewhere. He knew Steve had ended up with it so it only made sense that it would be here, but he hadn’t seen it since the last time he’d fired.

He pulled open the heavy doors and stared at the lines of cases inside. It was perfectly organized. On the bottom was a familiar, rough, grey case. He crouched down and popped the snaps, then lifted the lid. Either it had been cleaned, or the bloodstains he remembered coating it were only in his mind. It looked solid, heavy, and deadly, nestled in the foam. He ran one finger along the barrel and a shiver down his spine followed along. He slammed the case shut.

When he stood, he was face to face with the smooth black case that held the bow. Clint had said he could try any time he wanted, and for some reason, he wanted. It had almost been fun, playing with it before. He’d never seen an arrow pierce a jugular, or shatter a skull into a thousand pieces, but it still gave him the focus and satisfaction of hitting that target, seeing something improve. And he wasn’t an archer, he was an ex-sniper, so it wasn’t… honing.

He grabbed the handle and yanked the bow out the case, taking a handful of plain arrows from a tray above, then marched over to a centre lane before he could back out. He took his time laying the arrows out and getting JARVIS to line the targets up the way he wanted. He took the bow out and ran his hands over every inch of it, getting to know the weight, the feel. He found the balance point and spun it around his hand. It felt right when he finally settled it in his hand and nocked an arrow. He played Clint’s instructions in his head as he raised the bow. _Hand, finger, elbow, draw to anchor, breathe, fire._ The arrow dropped too soon and just caught the bottom of the paper target. “Huh.”

“You’re still breaking at the wrist,” a voice behind him said.

Bucky spun, his mind and heart going into the even flatline that prepared him to fight with ease and control instead of fear. It was the deadly calm that made him so good at what he did - had done. But it was Clint behind him, not a threat, and after a beat, he was able to kickstart his system again, though when he did, it jolted into overdrive. “Jesus, Birdbrain, wear a bell.”

“Only if you let me pick what you wear, Snowflake,” Clint teased back.

Bucky felt a smile tugging at his lips. Nothing shook Clint did it? Last time he had stood too close Bucky had _run away_ and here he was making jokes again. Bucky shot him the requisite “Not Amused” look but he knew Clint could see the grin teasing underneath. “Wrist?”

“Yup. Draw straight back.”

“Right.” Bucky turned back to the arrows and started firing again. This time Clint offered quiet criticism, occasionally reaching out to poke part of Bucky’s arm, or back, or neck that he’d forgotten about. It was hard, in a different way than the running was hard, and by the time he’d finished with his little bundle, his right arm was aching and his forehead was hot with sweat. Clint leaned against the wall between lanes, legs out in front of him and arms crossed over his chest. Bucky set the bow down carefully and lifted the hem of his shirt to wipe his face. He didn’t miss the sweep of Clint’s eyes over his exposed stomach. His hummed with the desire to do the same of Clint, and he shuffled forward a few steps. Clint straightened almost imperceptibly, but his body language relaxed, welcoming, open.

“Not bad, huh?” Bucky said, if only to give his mouth something to do, other than the thing that his mind was currently loudly suggesting.

Clint laughed. “Yeah, you’re getting there. They’ll be replacing me with you any day now.”

“No.” The word slipped out harsher than he intended, almost a growl and he swallowed the end of it. But Clint just snapped his eyes to Bucky’s and gave a little nod.

“No one is expecting you to be an Avenger, Buck. You can retire.” His voice was low and soft, and Bucky automatically leaned in, as if he could pull the words inside of him and make them true.

“I don’t know how,” he whispered. He was so close now and Clint wasn’t moving so it must be him stepping forward, he must be the one resting a hand flat against the wall next to Clint’s head and tucking his feet on either side of Clint’s.

“I know,” Clint said. Bucky didn’t have the brainpower to figure out what that meant. He could feel the puff of breath at Clint’s words and his mouth fell open a little in anticipation. The world tilted and took him with it and suddenly their lips were pressed together.

Clint was warm, and tipped his head just so, until they fitted together perfectly. Flames licked up inside Bucky’s gut, scorching his lungs and scaring the breath out of him. Clint’s hands rose to rest lightly on Bucky’s hips, barely there, a kiss of their own. It felt right for Bucky to bring a hand up and furrow it into Clint’s soft hair, drawing him in deeper. Bucky let his lips slot between Clint’s until they parted just enough that he could feel a brush of wet and the warmth of his breath.

With a hushed, desperate noise, Bucky pulled back, only a few inches, and Clint’s eyes flickered open. He smiled, warm and pleased, and Bucky’s heart went wild. This was too much. That was a smile that meant things and Bucky hadn’t even meant things by kissing Clint, it had just happened, somehow. It felt good, but now, hovering here and having nothing so say felt horrible. Bucky pushed back a few steps and resisted the urge to wipe the back of his hand across his mouth, as if he could rewind a few minutes and not make this crazy first move.

Clint still didn’t move, but he’d shifted from smiling to watching Bucky carefully, like he thought he might bolt again. Embarrassment heated the back of his neck and his chest, and Bucky searched desperately for something to say. “I’m sorry, I don’t -” He wasn’t sure what he “didn’t.” There were a lot of options, actually, the most pressing of which was: “I don’t know what the fuck I’m doing.”

“It’s alright,” Clint said with obvious caution. “That was nice.”

“I’m sorry. I can’t. I shouldn’t have done that.” Bucky grabbed the bow and spun away towards the cages. JARVIS would pop the arrows out of the target and run them through a mechanism in the floor that would deposit them back in the trays. He could already hear it rumbling under their feet. He shoved the bow back in its case and slammed the doors to the cage shut, only realizing after it was closed that Clint had probably come down to shoot and might have wanted it left out. Bucky braced his hands against the doors of the cage and dropped his head between his arms, eyes fixing on the creases between the floor tiles.

A warm hand settled on Bucky’s lower back and Clint’s soft voice brushed his ear. “Breathe.” Bucky let out a shaky breath. “Don’t worry. I’m alright. I’m alright with whatever you want.”

Bucky pulled back and turned, back to the cage now, facing Clint. “What if I don’t know what I want?” Bucky managed to squeeze out.

“That’s okay too.” Clint smiled again and the whole room shot up a few degrees. “Take your time. You know I like you, but as a friend too. So if you need to talk, or shoot things, or other things...” Clint shot him an over-the-top wink and Bucky couldn’t help a smile, shaking his head. “I’ll be here. Okay?”

All Bucky could do was nod. Clint nodded back then turned and walked away, leaving Bucky alone with the ever-tightening straps of anxiety around his chest. He slid to the floor and looked up at the ceiling. It wasn’t white here, it was black for some reason. The whole range was painted black. Probably so the targets would stand out more. But for Bucky, it meant the film reels couldn’t play, or if they were, all he could make out was little flickers of light, no faces, no screams, no blood.

_I like you._

Well. Fuck.

 

**

 

True to his word, Clint was astonishingly _there._ He started showing up at Bucky’s apartment and dragging him down to the range, or out into the city, to Bucky’s horror. Clint didn’t have a schedule, like Steve did, he showed up randomly and it meant Bucky had no time to school his expression, set his shoulders, or paste on a smile. Clint knocked, then barged in anyway, catching Bucky in the middle of any number of embarrassing things. A small voice in the back of Bucky’s mind told him that if he asked, Clint would stop, but he ignored it. He didn’t want to think about why he liked it this way, but he did.

Once, Clint had walked in while Bucky was sitting with his back against the wall, watching blood drop from the ceiling onto his hands. Clint hadn’t said anything, he’d just sat next to him, shoulder-to-shoulder, and waited. When Bucky had found the strength to stand, Clint had taken him to the pool and raced him back in forth in laps until they were both laughing and exhausted.

The nights weren’t always better, but Bucky found that on the days he worked out, he was much more likely to sleep. He also had this bizarre, unsubstantiated idea that if he was truly in a bad place at night, Clint would just appear in his apartment. He’d never come that late, but Bucky told himself that if it were a real emergency, he would. And then, every night that he didn’t, the rising panic couldn’t be that bad, the straightjacket couldn’t be that tight, the blood couldn’t be real, or Clint would be there.

Bucky woke sharply, confused, to the sound of JARVIS’ voice. “ -from Mister Barton.”

Bucky shook the cobwebs out of his head. Sounded like JARVIS had a message for him. “G’ ‘head,” he mumbled.

“Bucky, Bucky, bo-Bucky, banana fana fo-fucky, fe fi mo-mucky, Bucky,” JARVIS said flatly.

A burst of laughter exploded from the other side of Bucky’s bedroom door, and he tumbled out of bed and yanked it open to find Clint there, doubled over with mirth. “If you were right there, why did you text me?” Bucky pushed past him into the kitchen, then realized with growing discomfort that he hadn’t grabbed a shirt.

“I really wanted to hear JARVIS say that.” Clint set himself on a bar stool by the kitchen and started tapping at his phone again, but Bucky snatched it out of his hands and stood on his tiptoes to place it on top of the kitchen cabinets. “Hey!”

“No more texting my apartment. I’ll give it back to you when we leave.” Bucky grabbed cereal and a bowl, then waved them at Clint, who nodded. He passed them over, along with the milk and grabbed dishes of his own. They ate in surprisingly comfortable silence. Bucky was still adjusting to the idea that this didn’t have to be hard. He cocked a hip against the kitchen island and blinked himself awake while Clint perched on his stool on the other side, munching. Even the cereal was weird. He never used to eat breakfast before Clint showed up.

“I want to go out today. Where do you want to go?” Clint piped up, apparently thinking Bucky had had enough time to wake up fully.

Bucky shrugged. “Whatever.”

“Well, then. We’ll walk ‘til something interesting happens.” He stuck his tongue out and winked as Bucky rolled his eyes.

“Something interesting” turned out to be an open house at the animal shelter down the street.

“Are you kidding me?” Bucky asked, as Clint dragged him inside. Clint ran off towards the dog room, but Bucky found himself wandering into the small animal room instead. Dogs were alright, but they made him smell gunpowder for some reason he couldn’t put his finger on.

There was a round woman with a bright smile that crinkled her whole face sitting in a chair in the corner. She was covered in baby rats, letting them crawl over her arms and head, up her sleeves and in her hair. Bucky couldn’t help but smile back - she looked like a cartoon character.

“Hi there!” She waved, a tiny black and white ratlet clinging to her fingers as they moved. “Just giving the babies some exercise but holler at me if you have any questions. I volunteer here most days, I have pretty much everyone down.” She winked.

“Thanks, doll.” Bucky grinned back and got a twitter of a laugh. He liked her, she seemed genuine. Bucky made his way across the room to the bank of cages. They were all different sizes and laid out haphazardly on shelving units. He started at the top of one unit, eyeing a budgie, a guinea pig, and an empty seeming cage. The tag said another guinea pig, but it must be hiding. The next unit had a few more birds, then a long, flat cage filled with a collection of tiny flop-eared rabbits. Bucky crouched down and peered inside. They peered back at him.

“That’s a litter we’ve just had here,” the woman told him. He heard the click of a cage, then the taps of her shoes as she crossed the room. Bucky cocked his head at a grey mottled one that was eyeing him curiously. “That’s Hare.”

“Excuse me?”

“The one you’re looking at? She’s called Hare.”

“Why would anyone name a rabbit ‘Hare’?”

“It was the kids,” she explained. “We have a day camp for kindergarten students and we let them name any babies that are born here. That’s Hare, Spencer, DJ, Goat, and Jeff.” She pointed at each one in turn. “Don’t ask me why, they’re five. You can pet them if you like, just watch out for Jeff, he kicks.” She opened the whole top of the cage and pushed a package of mixed greens towards Bucky. He pulled his hands out of his pockets, sudden nerves winding through his gut, but she didn’t comment on his silver hand, merely handed him the greens and stepped away a little, poking into another cage with a coo and leaving him with the baby rabbits.

Bucky looked at the rabbits. They looked at him. He grabbed a leaf at random from the package - he didn’t even know what it was, one of those weird designer vegetables that always seemed to be on the sandwiches Steve brought him - and nine, tiny, beady eyes jumped from his face, to his hand (Goat was apparently a bit cross-eyed). He leaned over to offer the gang the leaf, wondering if they were going to fight over it and what he should do if they did, but at his sudden movement they all startled up and disappeared into huts and hide-aways. “Um.” Bucky stilled, waited. After a tense moment, a twitchy nose appeared, then another. Bucky moved more slowly this time, holding out the leaf tentatively towards Hare. She hopped forward, once, twice, then reached up as far as she could stretch, grabbed the leaf out of Bucky’s hand and darted away. She settled in a far corner and started chewing, the leaf disappearing into her mouth like paper into a typewriter. Bucky found himself chuckling at her antics.

He fed the rest of the group, though he did watch out for Jeff, placing his leaf carefully on top of his plastic hut instead of risking being kicked. Still, every time he moved too suddenly, the bunnies would scatter. It was a lot of pressure. He held still, watching them eat, trying to be non-threatening. He didn’t notice he’d fallen into his sniper’s trance until the woman suddenly spoke right beside him. “My goodness, they do like you, I’ve never seen anyone watch them so quietly for so long!”

Bucky startled up, scattering the bunnies again, and gave his head a little shake. The woman was smiling at him kindly. “They’re nice,” he said, feeling like she was waiting for a review. “But they’re kind of… twitchy.”

“Prey animals.” She closed the top of the cage and latched it. “They’re all a bit like that. Loving, but on the nervous side. If you’re looking for something more confident…” She led the way across the room to where a tall cage stood on its own. It was lined with fleece, had a bright pink litter pan on the bottom level, and was filled with a variety of soft hidey holes and hammocks. “I think you might like Noodle. She’s got an attitude.”

As far as Bucky could tell, there was no such thing as Noodle. The cage was still and quiet and he saw no tiny feet, or beady eyes. Then the woman gestured towards one of the hammocks, and Bucky peered around the side of the cage, trying to see better. And there it was. A… creature. It was long, and furry. It was lying on its back in the hammock, but a solid third of it was sticking out of one side, it’s long-clawed feet straight up in the air and its neck lax. Its head hung upside down, jaws relaxed, revealing two long fangs, and eyes closed. Its little chest moved up and down. Bucky could see why they called it Noodle, it didn’t appear to have any bones at all.

The woman opened the large cage door, reached into the hammock, and pulled Noodle out. And kept pulling, and kept pulling. She finished by extracting two short legs with curled feet that hung loosely out of her hands. Noodle, it seemed, didn’t mind being manhandled. She was still sleeping.

The woman dumped Noodle in Bucky’s arms before he could protest, and he awkwardly made a sort of hammock with his arms, letting Noodle drape over them, her head hanging off one end, her back feet out the other. “What is it?” Bucky asked, trying to figure out a polite way of handing it back to the woman without disturbing it.

“She’s a ferret. She’s four years old. Her family gave her up because they didn’t have time for her anymore. Very sad. She’s a lovely girl though. Likes to steal things, but very gentle.”

Bucky peered down at the limp body in his arms. “Is she always this… flat?”

The woman giggled again. “Give her a minute.” Her eyes twinkled. She gestured with her head, then followed it, over to a collection of hamster cages. Bucky looked at Noodle. Noodle looked kind of dead.

“What do you do?” he asked her.

One of her paws twitched.

“Nice.”

He was contemplating putting her back in the cage and going to find Clint when she suddenly sat up in his arms. “Good morn-” Noodle surged up his arms, digging her claws into his shirt and dragging herself up to his face. “Whoa.” Bucky leaned back, but she was relentless - and so long - reaching his mouth with hers before her back feet had even left his arms. She sniffed intently, getting his chin, his nose, his lips, his cheek, then continued climbing, following her front legs with her back until she was up on his shoulder. Bucky was worried she would slip and fall, but her claws were curled tight into his shirt and he didn’t want to tug too hard and hurt her. He resorted to hovering his hands nearby while she shoved her face in his hair and snorted wildly.

Noodle crossed behind his head, from his left shoulder to his right then started sliding back down his chest. She let go abruptly with her feet and Bucky only just caught her before she bounced right out of his arms and to the floor.

“God, you’re worse than Clint,” he told her. “Flinging yourself off of things.” He gripped her carefully around the middle, holding her up so he could look in her face. She was white on her legs, tail, and sides, but she had a dark brown splash over her back, like a jacket, and a brown mask around her eyes. Her expression remained blank, but he would swear there was a little glint in her eyes. She yawned, then smacked her jaws together. Her back legs hung loosely out of his hands and when he rocked her back and forth they swung like pendulums. Bucky’s jaw twinged and he realized he was grinning at her. She was just so _weird._

Noodle yawned again and, feeling bad for ruining her afternoon nap, Bucky tucked her back in her cage and shut the door. The woman appeared beside him again. “Fun, isn’t she?”

“Yeah. I like her. Never seen a ferret before.” He stuck the fingers of his right hand through the cage bars and Noodle sniffed them attentively before sliding back into her hammock and closing her eyes. “I’d better find my friend. Thanks for the tour.”

“Debbie,” the woman said, extending her hand.

“James.” Bucky shook it.

“Thank you for your service, James.” Her kind eyes had a hint of sadness to them.

“How -?”

“My son. He was in Iraq.” _I know the look,_ she carefully didn’t tack on, but Bucky could feel the words hanging between them. His tongue was too heavy to speak so he merely nodded, and walked out, shooting one last look at Noodle’s cage as he slipped through the door.

It took five minutes to find Clint - out back in the exercise pen with three golden retrievers climbing all over him, laughing like a loon - and ten more to extract him from the shelter.

“I’m going to get a dog!” Clint said brightly as the hit the street again.

“Sure you are.” Bucky wrapped his right arm around Clint’s shoulders, left back in his pocket, and tugged him close. Clint’s manic grin softened and he pressed up against Bucky’s side. It reminded him of forever ago, when he used to drag Stevie to hell and back with an arm around his shoulders, but it didn’t feel the same. There was something warm and tingly flickering in his stomach, and he wanted to tuck his fingers against Clint’s neck, instead of giving his arm a hearty shake. Clint seemed content to be pulled along, leaning into Bucky’s side like he had when he was injured. But Bucky reminded himself that Clint was fine now. All that remained was a scar. Clint didn’t belong pale and limpy, stuck to a hospital bed. He was all motion and chatter.

They reached the tower elevators, and Clint hit the button for the gym floor. “I said I’d spar with Nat today. She’s being a Nervous Pervis and needs to hit me until she’s sure I’m okay. It’s a thing. Catch you later?”

Instead of answering, Bucky tightened his hold on Clint’s shoulders, deeply resistant to the idea of letting him go. Clint stumbled forward into his grip and they were so close, face to face now instead of side by side and Bucky kissed him again.

This one was short, and slightly awkward since Bucky’s aim was a little lacking and it ended up being half-mouth, half-cheek. He felt himself blushing, of all things, but Clint put a gentle hand on either side of Bucky’s face and kissed him again, square on this time. He pulled away, just as the elevator reached his floor and opened. Clint stepped back, hung in the doorway for a moment, eyeing Bucky with curious delight, then disappeared.

Bucky fought the whole way up to his apartment to keep a smile off his face.

Steve showed up at noon for lunch, as usual, but Bucky found himself surprised when the knock on the door came. The morning out with Clint had flown by and he’d barely kicked his shoes off and shed his jacket when the noise came from behind him. Steve held two plates this time, instead of bags, and he smiled brightly when Bucky opened the door

“Hey, Stevie.” Bucky took both plates so Steve could come in and set them on the table.

“Hey, Buck. You sound chipper, have a nice morning?” Did he? The words felt the same as they always did coming out of his mouth. Maybe a little lighter…

He shrugged. “It was alright. Clint dragged me around town.”

There was something unpleasantly _knowing_ about Steve’s smile. “That’s nice.”

“Shut up.”

“What? I said that was nice.”

“You’re grinnin’ at me.”

“I always grin at you,” Steve shot back, grinning wider and definitely being an asshole now. And that only reminded Bucky of Clint’s horrible joke which sent his head dipping down onto the edge of the table as he groaned.

“I don’t want to talk about it, alright?” But his lips were twitching up too, and he knew Steve could hear it.

“Alright. So… how about that weather?” He was still grinning.

“Lord, Stevie, you are the worst.” Bucky snatched a handful of chips off Steve’s plate and shoved them in his mouth, trying to maintain a glare throughout.

“Actually, speaking of Clint, he wants to get back out into the field. Do you think he’s ready?” Steve pulled the lettuce out of his sandwich and nibbled at it like Hare. He was always picking his food apart like a kid.

“You’re asking me?”

“Yeah. You guys shoot together, right? Does he seem up to it?”

“I don’t shoot,” burst out of Bucky before he could find a better way to say it.

Steve’s hands stilled and his eyes widened slightly, then narrowed, brow creasing. His voice dropped low and soft when he spoke. “I wasn’t accusing you of anything, Buck.”

“I -” Bucky had no idea what to say. “I… know. I just - I don’t shoot…” he repeated, trying to gather his thoughts up and spread them out into sense.

“Why not?”

Bucky opened and closed his mouth a few times. His mind wouldn’t still. _Honed… training… I’m not… that._ “I’m not a weapon. I don’t want to be a weapon.” Steve’s face twisted predictably, but this time it didn’t feel quite so horrible. For the first time, he saw sympathy instead of pity. He wondered if he had changed, or Steve had.

“Buck,” Steve all but whispered. He reached across the table to rest his hand on Bucky’s wrist. “I’m never going to ask you to fight. Never. You’re done, if you want to be.”

It was like all the air being let out of a balloon. Bucky’s chest deflated, and with it the bands of anxiety loosened until he felt like he could breathe properly for the first time in months.

“Did you really think I wanted you to join the Avengers?” Steve asked.

“I - I don’t know. I think I just needed to hear you say it.”

Steve’s fingers squeezed around Bucky’s wrist and it was only then that he realized it was his metal arm Steve had grabbed. “I didn’t bring you here because I wanted you on the team. I brought you here because you’re my friend, and I missed you. I wanted to give you a home, see you happy, help you recover.”

Bucky nodded, picking at his carrots to give his hand something to do. “Thanks,” he muttered.

“Whatever makes you happy. Shooting, or not shooting. Or… whoever,” Steve added lightly, leaning back into his chair and pulling the tomato out of his sandwich.

“Subtle.”

“Just saying.” The asshole was grinning again.

“Dick.”

Steve winked. “Love you too, Buck.”

“I’m cancelling lunch forever,” Bucky shot back.

“You’d starve.”

Bucky gave that some thought. “Okay, you can bring lunch, but you can’t stay.” Steve laughed out loud and as the sound filled the apartment, Bucky realized that he wasn’t the only one who had been pasting on smiles and faking laughter. _This_ was his Steve. He grinned across the table.

 

**

 

Three days later, Clint went off on a mission instead of showing up in Bucky’s apartment, and as soon as he was gone, Bucky realized he had been waiting for this. He gave JARVIS some specific instructions, then grabbed his wallet and walked to the bank. It was a little unsettling, being out alone, but he stayed focused on his own mission and that helped. He decided that braving the ATM was less daunting than facing the teller. It took him three tries, but he managed to convince the computer to give him $60 from his bank account. He wasn’t sure how much he had, Stark paid all his expenses, but Steve had worked some magic with SHIELD and the VA and he knew there was a steady trickle coming into the account. Honestly, besides using his card for a few meals out with Clint, he hadn’t had to touch it. It felt good though, spending his money, making decisions on his own.

The fact that he remembered exactly how much this would cost let him know that he was making the right decision.

He walked a few more blocks to the shelter and pushed open the door to the ding of the bell above. The woman at the counter was different from last time. “Hello! How can I help you?” She beamed at him.

“Uh, I’m James Barnes? My - uh - assistant was going to…”

“Oh of course! Mr. Jarvis called and did most of the paperwork over the phone. I just need a few more things and a couple signatures. She’s all packed up and ready to go. We’re so pleased. Debbie said she loved you the other day, and they can be so hard to find homes for.”

“Um. Great.” Bucky took the pen and carefully filled out the blank sections on the form, signing the bottom with a few rough curls. He took the $60 out of his wallet and slid it across the counter. The receptionist gave him a receipt and an information packet then called into the back. Bucky hovered in the foyer until another chipper employee came out with a large cardboard carrier.

“Might want to drive fast, Mr. Barnes,” he said with a wide grin. “She’s already trying to break loose!”

Bucky was wondering what they put in the water here that made everyone so damn cheerful, when the man plunked the box in his arms and walked away. It was making a worrying scratching noise. “Um. Ok.” By the time he reached the end of the block, he had his hands over two airholes that had been turned into egress windows while a third was in rapid construction. He half-walked, half-jogged back to the tower and had the box tipped on its side and was playing whack-a-nose with four different holes by the time he pushed into his apartment.

He’d already set up a few litter pans and some hidey holes. A cage was on order and would be here tomorrow, but he hoped he wouldn’t need it much. The apartment was small, and safe. He didn’t even have much furniture. He wanted her to be able to run around as much as she wanted. He set the box down, double checking that the door was closed, and opened the flaps. “Okay! You’re finally free.”

Nothing happened.

He peered into the box. In the bottom corner was a curled up brown and white shape, like a furry cinnamon bun. Noodle was asleep.

“Are you kidding me?” Bucky reached into the box and pulled her out, trying to keep her bundled up. He sat on the floor and set her in his lap. Her paws twitched. “Sorry if it sucks here,” he said. “I’m kind of boring. But it’s got to be better than being stuck in that cage all day, right? Though I’m starting to think all you do is sleep anyway.”

At that, Noodle leapt out of his lap and started vigorously scratching her side.”You’d better not have fleas,” he warned her. “Pretty sure Clint already does and that’s enough for me.”

Suddenly done with scratching Noodle darted across the room, bounding along, back arched up into a C-shape. “Wait!” Bucky scrambled up to his feet and followed her. They spent the next hour working their way around the apartment six million times, Noodle sniffing everything, and Bucky realizing that he hadn’t ferret-proofed quite as well as he thought he had. She managed to pull herself up onto the couch, then fling herself across the sizable gap, legs out like a flying squirrel that forgot its glider, landing wild on the coffee table and sending a pile of books crashing to the ground. Bucky employed a few words he hadn’t used since his army days, then apologized, since Noodle was only four and that probably wasn’t fair.

Bucky tired before she did, eventually giving up on chasing her around. He moved everything he deemed breakable onto the kitchen counters and dared her to find her way up there.

Once she had explored everything in the small apartment, she took everything she could find and hid it under the bed. The remote was gone, followed by one of Bucky’s shoes, a coaster, two hair ties, and a fork Bucky didn’t even know had been out. She made a valiant attempt at a potted plant but its weight thwarted her. It did remind Bucky to water the plant, however, which he hadn’t done in some time. He could practically see it sigh in relief as he dumped a glass over the soil.

He sat on the floor in the middle of the living room and watched Noodle bounce around looking for other knick-knacks to abscond with. When she found nothing, she finally made her way back to Bucky. “Hey there.” He scooped her up under her tummy and held her against his chest. She squirmed back up to his shoulders, snuffed through his hair again, then slid back down to his lap. He reached out to pet her with his metal hand, but as soon as it touched her fur, she startled off to the side.

“Sorry,” he murmured. “I can’t really help it.” He reached out again, more slowly this time. Noodle bit his finger. “Ow!” He pulled it back. “I mean, not really ow, but seriously. That was mean. I can’t have you biting people.” He petted her with his flesh hand again and she simply sniffed his skin then turned away again, no teeth. “Huh. Just this one eh?” He tried the metal one. She bit his finger and held on, hard. “What the fuck?”

Their wrestling match continued, with Noodle clinging desperately to his hand every time he offered it. “What are you even - Wait.” Bucky looked across the room and through the open bedroom door to the bed she had stashed half his apartment under. “Are you trying to steal it?”

Unable to resist the temptation, Bucky reached up and released the clip that let him slide his prosthetic arm out of the socket. The replacement arm was so a part of him, that it felt deeply weird to be disconnected from it, but he set it on the floor and watched. Noodle took the pointer finger between her teeth, braced her legs and tugged violently. The arm didn’t move. She tugged again, harder. Then she squared up and gave five heroic tugs in a row, her whole body rippling with the effort.

She wanted it so badly. Bucky started to chuckle and it broke into wild, untamable laughter, his arm wrapping around to hold his middle to support his lungs when it became hard to breathe. Noodle completely ignored him, convinced with every fibre of her tiny being that if she pulled hard enough, the arm would move. When he found his breath again, Bucky lifted the arm back up, Noodle still attached, and locked it into place. He pulled her off with his flesh hand and held her up to his face. “You’re a weirdo.” She licked his nose.

Well.

He hid his arm in his shirt until she got bored trying to find it and wandered off. The day passed in a blur. After a few hours, Noodle got tired and fell asleep curled up in the dustpan for the kitchen broom Bucky never used. Bucky collapsed in bed too, knowing he was on top of what could only be described as a dragon’s horde of _stuff._ He was exhausted even though he hadn’t worked out today, and he dozed off in minutes.

The next morning Bucky woke to chaos and decided that yes, he would very much like that cage. Noodle had managed to knock the plant over, finally, amongst other things, and there was a lump under his mattress that suggested she had added significantly to her collection. He didn’t even think he owned that much stuff. He lifted his metal arm and inspected it for ferret teeth marks, sure she had spent the night plotting how to make it her own.

He filled her bowl with ferret kibble while he ate his cereal and watched her bounce around the apartment some more. A glance at the clock on the wall reminded him that Steve and Clint were due back from their mission tomorrow morning and he’d inevitably have to explain Noodle to them. _They’ll take her away,_ a cruel, croaking voice whispered in his ear. _They should._

“No.” Bucky bent and scooped her up into his arms. She settled into his warmth, yawning. “No, they won’t.” He shuffled from foot to foot, then sunk to the floor. He whispered very quietly into her fur while she licked his forehead with intense purpose, “I deserve this.”

Bucky and Noodle spent the morning together, playing with a few cat toys that had arrived in the first package JARVIS ordered, then taking a nap just before lunch. Bucky was giggling - while desperately trying to convince himself he wasn’t giggling - waving a feather toy for her to bounce and snatch at when a voice behind him jolted him into overpowering stillness.

“What. Is. _that?”_

“It’s - uh -” There was no easy way to say it. “It’s Noodle.”

Clint bust out laughing, arms wrapped around his middle. “Oh my god, are you kidding me? The Winter Soldier has a ferret called Noodle?!”

“The shelter said no one would adopt her. She liked me.” Bucky suspected he might be pouting, but never having done it before he wasn’t sure what it felt like.

Clint beamed down at him. “I’m sure she does.”

“You’re back early.” Bucky tapped a finger against Clint’s ankle and he sunk to the floor, settling in close beside Bucky.

“Milk run.” Clint leaned back on his hands. “Cap’s testing me.” At Bucky’s raised eyebrow he added, “Nah, it’s cool. Start slow.”

They watched Noodle go bananas over the feather toy, leaping back and forth and waving her head about with her mouth open. She collided with the side of the sofa and spun to face it then bounced back to the feathers when Bucky wobbled them again. Clint burst out laughing again. “Oh my god, she’s like ‘come at me bro’ personified!”

“You like her?” Bucky asked, not sure why it mattered.

“Yeah. I can’t believe you went back. I’m going to get that dog. All the dogs.” He turned towards Bucky, grinning, then ducked his chin. They were so close, shoulder to shoulder, Clint letting all his weight rest against Bucky’s side. “Stark’s gonna flip.”

Bucky shrugged. “Let’s not tell him then.”

“Yeah, alright.” Clint’s cheek brushed Bucky’s shoulder and something flickered low in his gut, a not-quite-dead ember glowing back to life and sending tendrils of hot smoke up his spine.

Bucky’s hand snuck over to rest on Clint’s side, just above his hip. Clint said nothing, but leaned into the touch. A gentle tug on Clint’s shirt brought his face around, meeting Bucky’s gaze with a question on his lips. But Bucky answered it before he asked with a gentle press of his lips against Clint’s. He melted into the kiss, tasting Clint’s lips with a swipe of his tongue, his hand clenching on Clint’s side. A warm arm wrapped around Bucky, not pulling him in, or holding him still, but resting along his back, like in the range. Clint made a soft noise against Bucky’s mouth and his arm twitched against Bucky’s side. Bucky drew back.

Clint blinked dopily at him, a warm smile curling his lips. “Keep kissing a guy and he’s going to get the wrong idea,” he muttered, eyes still fixed on Bucky’s mouth.

Clint hung there, and Bucky realized that he had kissed Clint three times now. He didn’t seem to be able to stop. And why did he feel like he should? There was this pervasive feeling that he shouldn’t be dumping himself on someone before he could support his own weight, but the more he thought about it, the more it didn’t make sense. Everything had been easier since he met Clint. The last few lunches with Steve hadn’t felt like a marathon, he’d gone out, he even had a pet. What was he waiting for?

Bucky took a deep breath. “...Maybe it’s the right idea?”

“Yeah?” Clint’s soft smile bloomed into a full-on grin. “You sure?”

“I’m sure.” Bucky pressed forward again. This time Clint’s arm tightened around his back, and the heat in his gut burst into a full-fledged flame, burning, consuming. A hand wound into the front of his shirt and tugged, drawing him forward as Clint tipped backwards until they were sprawled on the floor. “God…” Bucky dipped down to kiss Clint again, shifting until his hips were settled between Clint’s thighs. A small shift beneath him and he could feel Clint’s erection, insistent against the inside of his hip. _“Uhh,”_ he moaned, biting off the rest with teeth clamped around his lower lip. He couldn’t remember the last time he felt like this

“You okay?” Clint asked softly, lips brushing against Bucky’s cheek.

“Yeah,” Bucky gasped out. “Yes. Yes, _please.”_

Clint’s hands slid down to his hips, then slipped up under his shirt. “Been wanting to get my hands on this for ages,” he whispered, running them up Bucky’s sides, then around to his back. “You keep flashing me in the gym and expecting me to keep my hands to myself. It’s cruel.”

“I wasn’t - I wasn’t flashing you. I was - uhh - sweaty.”

“Even crueler.” Clint sucked Bucky’s bottom lip between his own and _god_ it had been so long - a lifetime - since he had felt warm skin against his, solid arms around his waist, hot breath on his cheek. They both arched into each other and the friction, still trapped in his pants, was too much and not enough at once. “Can I -?” Clint’s hands fell to Bucky’s pants.

 _“Yes,”_ Bucky growled, then, when Clint didn’t react fast enough, he dropped his hand to his own pants, shoving Clint’s aside. The metal arm braced against the floor so he wouldn't collapse on top of Clint, but as he worked his button open, Clint shoved until he tipped onto his side and they lay facing each other. They drew together in another kiss, turned heated and frantic now. Hot hands gripped, and pawed, and pulled, urging Bucky’s clothes aside, freeing as much skin as he could. Bucky followed suit, pulling Clint’s shirt over his head, then bending to mouth along his collarbone and down his chest. When he found the scar on Clint’s stomach, still angry and red, and uneven, he ran his thumb across it gently, as if he could soothe it back into unblemished, creamy skin.

He dipped his hand lower, and Clint arched up into the touch. Rushed and overeager, Clint’s hand scrambled at Bucky’s open jeans, pushing them lower then pressing over Bucky’s hard cock. Bucky hissed at the contact, his cock twitching into the warmth and filling impossibly fuller. “Fuck,” he groaned, hips thrusting into the hold of their own volition.

A frantic struggle and both their clothes were shoved aside enough to bring their cocks together. Bucky stroked Clint’s length, thrilling at the feel of unfamiliar velvet skin, then wrapped his warm hand around both of them. “Yeah,” Clint pushed up into the grip, fingers digging into Bucky’s hips. “Yes like that. _Harder.”_

Bucky’s grip tightened and their moans crashed between them, twisting around each other and filling the room. There was fire under his skin now, burning, raging, lighting up every inch of him. Clint’s mouth found his again, but after one half-kiss, half-groan, he dipped to his shoulder and bit down hard.

A stuttered curse ricocheted out of Bucky’s throat as the fire threatened to turn him to ashes. It was too hot, too much, too bright. He squeezed his eyes shut and pressed his face to Clint’s neck. The hand on his hip dropped to his thigh and pulled, changing the angle, and _fuck_ he was gone. Engulfed in flames, he let go with a shout, pulsing over his fist and covering Clint’s cock where it thrust against his.

“Holy shit,” Clint croaked, his hand still vice-gripped to Bucky’s thigh. “Holy shit holy shit yes yes uhhhh -”

Slick now, Bucky’s fist stroked over Clint’s cock, hips rocking together, squeezing and twisting, trying to draw his orgasm out. He wanted to hear him moan, gasp, see him tense and arch and bend, feel him throb in his grip. “Come for me,” he scraped out against Clint’s neck and the hand on his hip squeezed harder. Clint tensed like a bowstring, drawn back as far as he could, then _bam_ released. Hot come spilled into Bucky’s hand, mixing with his own, and when Clint’s whimpering moans quieted, he stilled.

Clint panted against Bucky’s shoulder, sucking in air around a mouthful of his skin. Pride and satisfaction bloomed in Bucky’s chest; he’d done that, he’d made Clint feel that good. It was a high like no other, coupled with the bone-deep satiation of release, and the thrill of tension resolved.

“I think I’m falling for you a bit there, Snowflake,” Clint said lightly, soft laughter rippling through his words.

“You’d better be.” That made Clint laugh harder.

“Oh yeah?”

“Yeah.” Bucky pulled back, then tugged Clint closer anyway. “Don’t want to be in this alone.”

“Sap.” Clint beamed at him.

Bucky decided to kiss him until he couldn’t talk anymore. When they parted, Clint rolled onto his back and stretched, long and lithe. Bucky watched the muscles in his arms ripple, pleased he could do that openly now, without feeling like he needed to run until he collapsed.

“I’m starving,” Clint groaned into the stretch. “Wanna go out for lunch?”

“Sure. Steve’s back too though, right? Just gotta let him know not to stop by.” The thought momentarily shot hot adrenaline through Bucky’s veins - what if Steve was on his way up right now and - 11:25am the clock said. They still had time. “Hey JARVIS? Can you text Steve that I’m going to lunch with Clint today and he can read into that whatever he damn well pleases?”

“Absolutely, Sir.”

Clint chuckled then rolled up to his feet. He pulled his jeans up and buttoned them, then cast around for his shirt. “Where - ?”

Bucky looked up in time to see a corner of green fabric slip away under the bed. “Uh. Bad news.”

“Are you kidding me? Little fucking thief!”

“Actually, JARVIS told me that’s what ‘ferret’ means,” Bucky said, washing up in the kitchen. “Minus the fucking.”

“I will _not_ minus the fucking. The fucking was incredible. What I will minus is your kleptomaniac friend.” Clint bent down in front of the bed, giving Bucky a glorious view of his ass. He stretched his arm under, up to the shoulder, but Bucky’s bed was big, low, and tucked into the corner. Noodle was hiding her stuff all the way in the back, and he knew Clint’s shirt was gone for good.

“I thought you liked miniature kleptomaniacs. She’s just like Swiper, from your favourite show.”

“She is not! I can’t stop her stealing my stuff with ‘Noodle, no noodling’.” Clint grunted as he tried to reach the shirt.

“Give it up Birdbrain. Just grab another one.”

“I’m not walking around the tower shirtless! What would people think?” Clint turned to face Bucky and put his hands on his hips. He was adorable.

“You’re adorable. Wear one of mine.” Bucky thrilled a little at the thought.

“Oh yeah, sure, like I’m prepared for that ego crushing. They’ll be all these gaps filled with air where your shirts are used to vacu-packing over sheer muscle.” Clint gestured towards his abs.

Bucky dried his hands and crossed the room until he stood in front of Clint. He slipped two fingers into the belt loops at the front of his jeans and tugged until they were chest to chest. He kissed him soundly, leaving them both grinning. “Guess you’ll have to stay forever, then.”

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks for reading! <3


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